With a mammoth effort, Doyle slid sideways off his chair and swiftly rose to his feet.
“Your guest is here, Herr Doyle,” the captain was saying.
“Good—good to meet you, Mr. Ormsby,” Doyle said, grabbing the publisher’s delicate hand with its ornate crested ring in his own plump paw. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
“Delighted, absolutely delighted, Mr. Doyle,” said Sydney Ormsby in a voice that was thin and shrill, his accent clipped and Mayfair.
Since the captain still hovered, Doyle completed the amenities. Awkwardly indicating his guest, he said to the Sacher captain, “Ich erlaube mir Herrn Ormsby vorzustellen.” The captain took Ormsby’s limp hand, pumped it once, twice, half bowed and retreated. Somewhat lamely, Doyle explained, “I thought he should meet you. Never can tell when you’ll want a reservation. Or have you been to Vienna before?”
“Never, Mr. Doyle. I’m afraid that this is my first and my bloody last visit.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is anything wrong?”
“I’ll be only too pleased to tell you. Mind if we sit down?”
Disconcerted by Ormsby’s displeasure with Vienna, Doyle waited for his guest to sit and then himself squeezed behind the table. Equally disconcerting, Doyle decided, was the unexpectedness of his guest’s physical appearance. For Doyle, people were categorized as recognizable stereotypes, which had made his simple columns once so acceptable to simple readers. For Doyle, the word royalist evoked Emperor Franz Joseph, the word industrialist evoked Zaharoff, the word chemist evoked Pasteur. And so, hearing “publishing giant,” he had expected Hearst, no less. What he had first seen, instead, was the caricature of an Eton schoolboy, who came no higher than his own shoulders, and what he saw now was a seemingly callow, somewhat pimply, somebody’s brother who was impeccably repulsive.
After a third glance, Doyle had Sydney Ormsby, busy propping up his umbrella cane, whole: sand-colored slick hair combed sideways, tiny ferret eyes, thin pointed nose, wide pink ears, a straggling full ginger mustache sometimes hiding the small yellow teeth, and an adenoidal, oddly pornographic smile that tried to become a grin but graduated only to a smirk. Yet, position and wealth were evident in the accessories: the blazing Cartier jeweled tiepin, the Au Vieux Cadran enameled wristwatch, the chambray shirt and silk kerchief poking out of the charcoal silk Savile Row suit. The accessories did not modify Ormsby’s physical unattractiveness. Desperately, Doyle tried to believe that this young man was more than he appeared to be, because Doyle had to believe that he was more, because, after all, his guest had been enthusiastic about Doyle’s great book idea and had come this far to serve as Doyle’s patron.
With a start, Doyle became aware that the Ober, the headwaiter, was bending over Ormsby, and that Ormsby was ordering a double whisky-and-water without ice.
Immediately, Doyle asserted his hosthood. “Mr. Ormsby, if you don’t mind, if I may suggest—the dishes are so very delicious here—I guarantee you have a treat in store—but Sacher’s cooking requires an absolutely unspoiled, discerning palate, and the harshness of whisky could, well, interfere with your appreciation of the dinner. I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but political specialist though I am, my avocation and one affectation is gastronomy.”
“I don’t mind. Thanks for the advice.”
“If you wish to drink, I’d suggest a Viennese beer, say a glass of Schwechtar.”
Sydney Ormsby looked up at the waiter. “I’ll have the double Scotch.”
Heart sinking, Doyle ordered a bottle of Schwechtar.
“Now, m’dear chap,” said Ormsby, as he faced Doyle, “you wanted to know why this is my first and last visit to Vienna? Well, I’ll be only too glad to tell you. You know what I’ve found out in five hours here today? This beastly provincial village has no women, not a goddam one, and it has no night life at all after ten o’clock, I’m told. They roll up the bloody sidewalks at ten, as you Americans say.”
“If by ‘women,’ you mean pretty women, Vienna has its fair share.”
“Oh, yes? Where? All I saw today were some bloated Hausfrauen and some dowdy shop clerks reeking of garlic, and secretaries with thick legs.”
“Well, of course, you’ve got to look around—”
“Forgive the funk, m’dear chap, but I haven’t the time to look around. Anyway, I can judge a city in an hour. Either they are there, shaking it in your face, or they are not there at all. There is nothing here, Mr. Doyle, nothing.”
“You’re right about the night life, of course. Some may be found for tourists, but generally, it’s nonexistent. I guess there’s no market for it. After five hearty meals, your average Viennese is ready for nothing more active than television or sleep, which amount to the same thing.”
The waiter had brought the drinks, and Sydney Ormsby snatched at his and lifted the glass in a toast. “Here’s to Paris then—where the action is.”
Doyle lifted his beer glass, smiling weakly, and drank a little, as he watched Ormsby down half his Scotch.
“Matter of fact,” Ormsby was saying, “I didn’t plan to join my brother until tomorrow, but if we can conclude our business this evening, and I see no reason why we can’t, I may take a midnight plane out of here, or even an earlier one.”
For the first time since meeting his publisher, Doyle’s heart tripped with pleasure. Ormsby’s optimism about concluding their business “this evening” sounded the exact note that Doyle had hoped to hear. Dinner or no dinner, Doyle determined to pursue the business at hand without delay. But before he could follow through, two small cards intruded between Ormsby and himself. The dinner menus had been offered.
Meaning to brush the menus aside and suggest another round of drinks, since drinks seemed more likely to establish a congenial atmosphere of receptivity in Ormsby than food might, Doyle was halted by Ormsby’s high-pitched announcement, “Good Lord, I am hungry. Didn’t realize how much until this moment. If you’ve no objections, suppose we order?” Instantly, Doyle surrendered business to his guest’s sudden famine.
Ormsby was scanning the menu. Then he muttered through his mustache, “Reads like Whitaker’s Almanack. I don’t have the patience. Any suggestions?”
Doyle relaxed. Here he was on solid ground. “As a matter of fact, I’ve had considerable experience with Viennese cooking. While their national cuisine doesn’t have the artfulness and variety of the French, I do believe you’ll find Sacher’s kitchen exceptional.”
“Good, good,” said Ormsby, drumming his fingers on the table. “But food. I’m hungry.”
“Yes, of course. For an appetizer I’d recommend Butterteigpastetchen mit Geflügelragout—that spells creamed chicken in a patty shell—it dissolves in your—”
“Skip the appetizer.”
“Then a soup. Let us say Rindsuppe mit Leberknödel, that’s a liver dumpling in beef consomme—”
“If you say so, that is it. Now, the main course—”
“I’d suggest the specialty of the house—Tafelspitz—”
“What in the devil’s that?”
“Well, it’s boiled beef really, but—”
“Forget it. I’ve had boiled beef in London until it comes out of my ears.”
“But, Mr. Ormsby, this is not quite the same as your English boiled beef. There are countless slices of beef, and Sacher’s Tafelspitz is the magnificent brisket portion. I would suggest you—”
“Mr. Doyle, forgive me, but Tafelwhatever is out.”
Doyle, who had begun to perspire at the brow, shrugged good-naturedly. “In that case, I’d suggest Wiener Schnitzel—that is a veal cutlet fried—”
“Mr. Doyle, I know what Wiener Schnitzel is. Good. That’ll do it.”
“And, for a dessert, of course, it’ll be the pastry that made Sacher’s famous—”
“Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Sachertorte.” Ormsby grinned maliciously. “I hate it.”
“Hate it?” Doyle was taken aback. “But this is the original—chocolate cake, ch
ocolate icing, apricot jam—Sacher first invented it for Prince Metternich, when the Prince—”
“Have they got stewed fruit?”
“Ah, Gemisches Kompott—definitely.”
“Stewed fruit, then. I don’t like to overeat when I’m about to discuss business. And make it another whisky.”
With a wheeze, Doyle summoned the headwaiter. Somewhat embarrassed, he ordered for Ormsby. About to order for himself, he hesitated, inhibited by the publisher’s remark about overeating. Hunger pangs, as well as the temptress menu, weakened him, and he cursed himself for not having taken one of his yellow appetite-depressant pills. Anguished, he compromised, avoiding the appetizers, requesting a small bowl of soup, instead of a large one, confining himself to a normal portion of Tafelspitz instead of a giant portion, and then defiantly insisting upon Sachertorte and coffee.
When the meliceris materialized, Ormsby was disinterested and left it to Doyle to determine the selection of wine. After nervous consideration of the list, Doyle rejected the Heuriger vintages as too new, and settled for a safe, expensive old Rotwein.
Returning his attention to Ormsby, Doyle found the publisher inspecting him. “You’re quite the trencherman, Mr. Doyle.”
Doyle wanted to deny it, but then he knew that he could not deny his bloated face or protruding belly. “Well,” he began with forced cheer, “as some Viennese philosopher once put it—all men have a sentence of death passed on them at birth, and then they have the sentence indefinitely suspended, so their only sensible behavior is to emulate a condemned man, that is, ‘hope for the best and have a good meal.’”
Ormsby grinned. “A bit gloomy, but I’ll go along with it, if you substitute ‘a good woman’ for ‘a good meal’ and add to it—that is, if I may include business with pleasure—‘and enjoy a good book.’” Ormsby drained his Scotch glass, then winked. “That’s why I came all the way here, old chap, to find myself a good book.”
Doyle glowed. His guest’s earlier edginess had been dulled by the whisky. Ormsby even seemed likable now. Doyle waited for the consomme, crackers, and rolls to be set before them, and then he said, “You’ve come to the right place, Mr. Ormsby. This book is the product of years—years of detective work—”
“Evidently, from your letter. It should be a remarkable exposé.” He had a spoonful of soup, and without looking up, he said, “I’m honored you came to us. I assume no other publisher has seen the outline.”
Doyle would not permit his voice to betray him. He said evenly, “Oh no, I wouldn’t let it out of my hands until it was ready. When I knew it was ready, I wrote you first.”
“You’ll never regret your choice. It so happens—” he dug into his inner coat pocket and produced a fuchsia-colored pamphlet—“we specialize in political works.” He handed the pamphlet to Doyle. “This might interest you. Our fall announcement catalogue. You’ll find a preponderance of political books, important current histories and biographies, many by noted statesmen. Of course, you know that my brother, Sir Austin, is in the Prime Minister’s Cabinet—in fact, arriving in Paris with the P.M. tomorrow for the Summit on Monday—and, no need hiding it, my brother’s position naturally attracts many important political figures and authors to our house. Have a look.”
‘Thank you,” said Doyle, happy to be considered once more as the equal of important political figures and authors.
Finishing his soup, Doyle turned the pages of the fall non-fiction announcement catalogue. There was the usual number of English books on weather, bird-watching, great country houses, cricket, Byzantine painting, Germany, early clocks, steam locomotives, World War I, the Great Fire, Victoria, both Lawrences, Islamic culture, and rose gardens—but there were also, Doyle noted, autobiographies and personal adventures of international political leaders, journalists, explorers, espionage agents.
Doyle was impressed and eager to be among them. He passed the catalogue back to Ormsby, who was ravishing the Wiener Schnitzel. “I’d be proud to be on a list like that,” Doyle said.
“Let’s have you on the list as soon as possible,” said Ormsby between mouthfuls. He glanced at his wristwatch. “I daresay it’s not too soon to get on with our business. With decent luck, we should be able to conclude it within the hour. Then I can trundle off to Paris tonight, and you can dash to your typewriter and finish up the book. What do you say to that?”
Eating his delicious Tafelspitz, Doyle was reluctant to spoil the joy of it by having to worry about Ormsby’s reactions to the manuscript during dinner. Moreover, he disliked having the manuscript compete with the Wiener Schnitzel. Yet, he was eager for the final triumph. “Whatever you think best, Mr. Ormsby.”
“You have the manuscript. I have the contract. I think it best that I read the manuscript straightaway. Only a formality, you know, but still—” He paused. “It’s not too long, is it?”
“Oh, no, no,” said Doyle quickly, pulling open the zipper of his portfolio and extracting the folder containing the chapter and outline. “A half hour should do it.” He tried to keep his hand from trembling, as he handed the manuscript across the table to Ormsby. “I—I’m sure you’ll like it.”
“No fear, old boy.” He fondled the folder, then opened it and pressed it on the table beside his remnant of Wiener Schnitzel. “If you don’t mind keeping busy with the boiled beef, I’ll just concentrate on our book.”
Doyle’s throat was dry. “Never mind about me. You—you read.”
Immediately, Sydney Ormsby began to read, and Doyle pretended nonchalance and complete devotion to his Tafelspitz, which somehow had turned tasteless and did nothing to sate the clutching hunger in his stomach.
With elaborate care, Doyle fussed over the beef, accompanying each slice with a fresh crusty roll. His forehead was wet, and his throat constricted, as he forced down the last piece of beef, following it with one more roll and a swallow of wine. Head bent over his empty plate, he stole a look at his juror across the table. Ormsby had turned four pages and was on the fifth, and following Ormsby’s small eyes as they darted from margin to margin, Doyle could almost remember and recite, word for word, what the publisher was reading. Fascinated, almost hypnotized, Doyle watched Ormsby, whose eyes were fastened on the pages. Doyle’s right hand absently fumbled for the basket of rolls, felt inside it, found no rolls left, and pulled back. Shame suffused Doyle. He had consumed all the rolls. Should he send for more? No, that might distract Ormsby. His own traitorous, insatiable stomach begged to be filled Silently, Doyle tried to quiet it with every side dish, every crumb left on the table. He wondered if he could survive his angry stomach’s demands. Should he order more Tafelspitz? No, it would disturb Ormsby’s reading.
Suddenly, Ormsby looked up, tongue sucked between his teeth. “Cracking good chapter, that first one. Real jolter, a brute. Jolly good. Can’t wait to press on.” Sipping his wine, he turned the page and started reading the outline.
Doyle had sagged with relief, and now he sat beaming foolishly at the admirable Ormsby. Before his gaze, Ormsby had been transformed. He was Ormsby the Wise, Ormsby the Handsome Pericles and Apollo in one. Doyle watched another page turn, then another, and he searched Ormsby’s face, seeking a sign, any sign, an eyebrow movement, a blink, an exhalation, any reaction of continuing approval. But the peerless publishing face was an inanimate mask.
Doyle could not endure another second of this suspense. He leaned forward, whispering, “Please excuse me, I’ve got to visit the men’s room.” It was as if the absorbed Ormsby had not heard him. Trying to pull in his stomach so as not to jar the table, Doyle wriggled out of his chair, stood up, and walked away from the excruciating testing ground.
Once inside the lavatory, he had no idea why he was there except that he had said he was going there. He moved aimlessly about, stopped before a washbasin, washed and soaped his hands and face dried them, consulted his watch. This had consumed five minutes. In twenty minutes, Ormsby would be through. Doyle could not bring himself to return to the decisive battle
field. Then his stomach, crying out for anesthesia, gave him guidance.
Swiftly, Doyle left the lavatory, and passing the captain, he murmured that he wanted some air before the Sachertorte. Once outside, Doyle turned left and almost trotted to Kartnerstrasse. There he sought and located the old-fashioned café he had remembered. Pushing inside, he found a chair at the marble table between the jukebox and the espresso machine. Ignoring the newspapers that the waiter brought him, Doyle explained that he was in great haste, and would like to order whatever was hot and ready. Told that the Rindsgulyas was prepared, Doyle nodded, and requested a double order.
In less than a minute, the mound of beef goulash lay before him. He flung himself at it with the enthusiasm of a barbarian attacking a vestal virgin. He ate steadily, hardly chewing, hardly thinking, chomping and swallowing as his fork rose and fell in perpetual motion. In ten minutes, the plate had been devastated. Belching, Doyle paid his bill, came unsteadily to his feet, and intoxicated and topheavy with food, he staggered out of the café and headed back to Sacher’s.
Inside the hotel restaurant once more, his agitated nerves smothered under goulash, he made his way to the table, flexing his plump writing hand, the one that would sign the contract. Ormsby was there, absently finishing the stewed fruit, the manuscript open beside him. The publisher looked up curiously as Doyle moored himself behind the table.
“Sony to be so long,” he said.
Ormsby nibbled at a slice of pear but said nothing.
Doyle swallowed and indicated the manuscript. “Have you—have you finished it yet?”
“I don’t know.”
Puzzled, Doyle asked, “You don’t know?”
“I don’t know if I’ve finished. The last page seems to be missing. Where is it?”
Filled with consternation, Doyle grabbed for the open manuscript and stared at the page to which it was opened, and then stared at the publisher. “But this is the last page,” said Doyle. “It’s right here. You’ve read it.”
The Plot Page 7